


No Longer Bleed

by avani



Category: Evil Angel - Rufus Wainwright
Genre: F/M, Folklore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-29
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 22:57:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7011658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avani/pseuds/avani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the day she finally saw one in the flesh, she could only think that no one had ever warned her that the Others were beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Longer Bleed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deepdarkwaters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/gifts).



As long as she could remember, the Others had been there, waiting and watching. 

Cilla, what became of her after notwithstanding, had always been a good girl. She always washed behind her ears, and prayed to the bright angels to keep them safe, and at least pretended to listen to the village elders when they exhorted the adolescents of the village to steer clear of the Others, no matter what the allurements. For the Others were clever beyond imagining, and crafty too; their dark heavy hearts waited for a weakness in the village’s defenses, and once found, they would stop at nothing to bring it down. Did you (the greybeards would end their lecture by asking whatever unfortunate they’d cornered) want to be the one responsible for such a grim fate? 

“No,” said Cilla, every time, shaking her head desperately, “No,” and “No,” but on the day she finally saw one in the flesh, she could only think that no one had ever warned her that the Others were beautiful. 

At least this one was: a fall of sleek dark hair that parted over gray eyes; high cheekbones above a slash of bright red lips. Cilla wondered if the teeth behind them was pointed, if the tongue that lurked below was blunt or forked, and then if it even really mattered. The Other had her alone; she’d be dead before she had a chance to find out. 

But he looked at her instead of slashing her throat and leaving her to bleed out alone, looked at her with at least as much curiosity as she was studying him. He said: “They never told me you would be beautiful,” and Cilla’s eyes widened. 

Oh, you know how the story goes after that, my listener. The furtive meetings, the declarations of love, the kisses, oh, the kisses! Cilla found that her lover’s teeth were small and white and perfect; and that his tongue, whatever shape it was, knew how to draw pleasure from her as though it were made for no other purpose. 

Every night, Cilla would steal back to the village with swollen lips, an apron heavy with the apples they’d gathered together to excuse her absence, and a heart heavy with new dreams, and none of her fellow villagers guessed anything of her deception. They even awarded her the honor of lighting the beacons at night, to keep any stray Others at bay, and Cilla, who knew it would afford her more time with her lover, happily agreed. 

Oh, you know how the story goes on that one accursed night: Cilla returned late, distracted, and forgot to light the beacons as she should. And her lover, and his kin, followed close behind, eager to prey on the villagers. 

Except, my dears, the truth is far worse than that. Cilla came back later than she had meant to, true, but the sun hadn’t yet set. She had not yet forgotten herself to that extent. Her lover came behind her, true, but he came because Cilla dragged him with her, her warm fingers encircled his cool milky skin, her cheeks bright with excitement. 

“One more minute,” she panted, “one more minute, and I’ll go back—but one kiss more, my dear!” 

And he bent, always obedient to her whims, poor fool, and kissed her, and as he did, the beacons lit behind them. Anton the miller’s boy had seen the sun set and, thinking that something must have happened to Cilla, had taken it upon himself to perform her duty for the night. The Other howled with pain, as all Others do when confronted with our holy beacons, and left poor Cilla standing there, alone in the middle of the village square when everyone knew what she had done. 

No longer was she the good girl she had once been. Now Cilla was a disgrace, and barred from leaving the village limits. Her friends looked away from her, her rivals laughed where she could hear. She found herself forgotten. In the beginning she peered over the gates from time to time, and saw her lover waiting there, waiting for her; but behind her, she heard the sounds of the village. 

She could hear the laughter of the villagers, harsh as crow-curses, if she fled again. She would leave the village behind and have nothing to her name but the woods- and her love, for what that was worth. She would never again be as admired as she had been. 

She turned away. 

She grew up. Her face grew wise and weathered, her arms strong from forging steel. Her eyes were harsh. Whenever they dared approach her, she told the young ones stories of her past foolishness, and warned them to steer clear of the Others, no matter what the allurements. And despite it all, her people did not meet her gaze. 

Then the war came. 

The Others had had enough, they said, of living in the woods while the villagers enjoyed the walls and their warm beacons. They came outside the village with their silver knives and bronze spears, and inside the village walls, the villagers lit their beacons and rallied. “Remember Cilla,” they told themselves, “Remember how badly she was used! Remember what the Other did to her, good girl that she was!” 

For the first time in years, they smiled on Cilla, called her kind and good and beautiful as they had once before. And Cilla smiled back, the relief of their forgiveness as longed for as the sun rising. She sent them to war, she buckled the newly forged swords around their waists, she made sure the daggers at the wrists were sharp. 

“Remember me,” she murmured, “remember how I was deceived.” 

She sent them off to war, and from the village gates she watched. 

They lost, of course. The Others fought and struggled and won, and marched to the village in slow celebration. Cilla’s lover-that-had-been led the march. She stood at the village square to welcome them, and he knew what she had done. 

“You,” she said, and spat at his feet. 

“You,” he said, and reached for her sadly. 

She jerked away, and reminded him that she was beyond her childhood weakness. And her lover looked at her with unhappy gray eyes. 

“They would have made monuments to our love,” he told her, “except you made it into a factory for your hate instead.” 

“I was loyal,” she insisted. Her throat was tight. 

“So you were,” he said and turned away. He would not meet her gaze. Her villagers milled around her, offering support and comfort, but he would not look at her as he had once. She closed her eyes, and wished she could rewrite her own memories. 

So learn from me, my listeners, my children, from Cilla who once told you to hate the Others at all costs. For to see my depth of sorrow would be to never let the angel of hatred take your heart, as he did mine.

**Author's Note:**

> Cilla's name comes from the myth of Scylla and Minos, as a dorky shoutout on my part.   
> The title is a quote from the song because I'm creative like that.   
> Thanks for deepdarkwaters for the phenomenal prompts - I loved all of the songs you picked, and I hope you enjoy this fic as much as I liked writing it!


End file.
